On the evening of Oct. 11, 2023, just days after the tragedy of Oct. 7, my world came to a standstill. I learned that Laor, my beloved only child, was one of 364 concertgoers killed at the Nova festival where he was celebrating life, music and the companionship of his friends.
At that moment, I entered a chapter of life I had never imagined: being the living mother of a dead child.
Since then, I have embarked on a journey to search for meaning and for a reason to live in a world without my child. He was 20, over 6-foot-4 — our “Gentle Giant,” you could always pick him out in a crowd.
He was a loving and gentle young person, a generous friend always caring for the well-being of others, who loved music and began his career as a DJ. I began to ask: How could his death not be meaningless?
I only started to peek out of my den of pain once I connected with new friends: the extended family of the bereaved — a family that none of us chose to belong to.
I then met peers from the Parents Circle-Families Forum, a group of more than 750 bereaved Palestinians and Israelis who have lost an immediate family member to the conflict — and, perhaps most notably, have found solace in their shared belief that Israelis and Palestinians must speak with one voice to bring an end to violence, to find reconciliation and to make peace.
In September, the forum asked me to speak publicly for the first time about Laor’s death. I hesitated, but realized I wanted to do it. I wanted to share my story — and his story.
My peers and I spoke at a rally in Union Square in New York. We traveled more than 5,000 miles from where I lost my son. We came together to talk freely about ending the war and returning hostages. And when I finished speaking, still trembling from the experience of exposing my pain in front of strangers, a fellow bereaved Palestinian approached me and asked permission to embrace in a hug.
His name was Arab Aramin and he wanted to give me a hug from son to mother. At that moment, a shiver of excitement ran through me from the closeness and from his courage. His decision to bestow such a simple yet priceless gift made me realize I have not stopped being a mother for a moment. This is an enormous power, and I have full control of when I choose to use it.
Weeks later, I joined an online meeting of the forum’s women’s group. One of the Palestinian women stopped midsentence to say she had just heard an explosion near her house. She did not know where her son was. She apologized and left the meeting to look for him.
My heart was with that Palestinian mother. I was thrown back to the excruciating days when we did not know what happened to Laor — endless terror and chaos, vacillating between hope and despair.
For me, those moments ended with the news that no mother should hear — neither Israeli nor Palestinian.
I sent the Palestinian mother a message in the hope that she would know that there is a Jewish mother who is praying for the safety of her son, and the wholeness of her heart.
And in that moment, I began to find the answer to my question. The reason for living as a mother to a son who is gone.
I believe that the way to make real change in the world is through people — through humanity and empathy, and through encounters that bring hearts closer together. In the end, our painful experiences can teach us purpose and lead us to commonality and eventually peace.
